CHAPTER 5

Calista's POV

The heavy oak door of Dominic’s penthouse clicked shut, locking out the noise of the city and leaving us in a heavy, echoing silence.

I let out a long, shuddering breath, dropping my small designer clutch onto the entryway table and kicking off the torturous heels that had kept me upright through the longest dinner of my life. My feet throbbed, and my shoulders felt like they were carrying a ton of bricks. Dealing with Victoria Vance and a table full of judgmental billionaires was an extreme sport I had no desire to play ever again.

Dominic tossed his suit jacket over the back of the leather sofa, loosening his silk tie as he walked over to the kitchen island.

"You handled yourself well back there," Dominic said, his deep voice cutting through the quiet apartment as he reached for a bottle of water. "Though telling Victoria about her father's public bankruptcy filings was perhaps a bit more aggressive than necessary."

I crossed my arms over my chest, leaning against the doorframe with a sharp raise of my eyebrow. "She called me a nobody and implied I was a common gold-digger in front of your entire family. What did you expect me to do, bake her a sympathy cookie? If we're going to play this ridiculous game of fake marriage, your relatives need to learn right now that I'm not a doormat."

Dominic took a slow sip of water, his gray eyes fixing on me with an unreadable expression. A faint, slow smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth. "No," he murmured softly, setting the bottle down. "You are definitely not a doormat, Calista Monroe."

He walked over to the kitchen counter where a small first-aid kit sat—something he must have instructed his housekeeper to leave out after noticing the small kitchen burns and scrapes I had accumulated during my frantic baking days before my life completely imploded.

"Come here," he commanded gently, gesturing toward the stool by the island.

I hesitated, narrowing my eyes. "What are you doing?"

"Your hands," he pointed out, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You burned the back of your left hand against the oven rack yesterday morning before all this madness started. It's red and inflamed."

I looked down at my hand. In the chaos of the wedding cancellation, the ruined apartment, and the sudden million-dollar contract deal, I had completely forgotten about the painful burn near my knuckles. Slowly, I walked over and sat down on the high stool, resting my hand on the cool marble surface.

Dominic stepped closer, his tall frame blocking out the overhead light. He opened the small medical kit, pulled out a tube of soothing burn cream, and picked up a sterile cotton pad. His movements were surprisingly careful for a man whose entire life was run by corporate ruthlessness and cold strategy.

As he gently applied the cool cream to my skin, his thumb brushed lightly against my wrist. A sudden, electric jolt shot straight up my arm, making my breath hitch in my throat. I looked up, finding his face just inches away from mine. The clean scent of cedarwood and expensive cologne surrounded me, making my head spin in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

"We need to establish clear rules," I blurted out, desperate to break the sudden, suffocating tension thickening the air between us. "Now that the first family dinner is out of the way. We need boundaries."

Dominic didn't pull away immediately. His dark lashes lowered as he focused on smoothing the cream over my skin, his voice dropping into a low, raspy hum. "Rules," he repeated, echoing the word like a challenge. "Fine. What are your terms, wife?"

"Number one," I said, forcing my voice to remain steady despite the way my heart was hammering against my ribs. "No prying into each other's personal lives. This is a business transaction. Three months of playing house, a funded bakery, and then we walk away."

Dominic finally paused, raising his gaze to meet mine. His gray eyes were dark, intense, and entirely unreadable. "Agreed," he murmured. "Number two: absolute discretion. No outside parties can ever find out this marriage is a contract, or my grandfather will strip my position immediately."

"Fair enough," I whispered, the space between us shrinking until I could feel the heat radiating off his chest.

"And number three," Dominic added, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low register as his thumb traced a slow, deliberate circle against the inside of my wrist. "No falling in love."

The words hung in the air like a heavy, electric weight. My breath caught completely. For a second, the rest of the world—the debts, the betrayal, the ruined bakery, the corporate sharks—vanished entirely, leaving only the fierce, magnetic pull drawing us together.

I swallowed hard, forcing myself to look straight into his eyes and nod. "Deal. Neither of us has to worry about that."

Dominic held my gaze for one long, breathless second longer before slowly releasing my hand, stepping back, and closing the medical kit with a sharp click.